Black And White And Shades Of Gray Though ``marrying White`` Has Resulted In Discomfort At Work And Has Carried A Social Penalty, It Has Also Proved A Personal Blessing To Both Of Us.

January 26, 1992|BY RICHARD G. CARTER

THE 40-ISH WHITE WOMAN, fur collar up around her neck against the chill winds of a still-dark morning in January, stepped into the airport bus and made her way to an empty double seat on the left side of the aisle. The driver, a burly white man of about 55, approached and asked her des- tination.

``Two for La Guardia,`` she re- plied.

``Two?`` he said.

``Yes. I`m waiting for my husband. He should be here shortly.``

The driver smiled, accepted her money and gave her a receipt.

Five minutes later a tall black man trotted up to the bus, climbed aboard and glanced at the huddled passengers.

``Are you looking for your wife?`` the driver asked.

``Yes, I am,`` I answered.

``She`s halfway back on the left,`` said the driver, smiling.

This mundane incident points up a recent subtle change in America. A dozen years ago chances are that a white bus driver wouldn`t have realized my wife was the white woman. Or, if he had come to that conclusion, probably wouldn`t have behaved in a civil manner.

I know. I lived it.

In 1978, I ``married white`` despite some friends telling me that a black man who does so better have a high boiling point, which they knew I didn`t.

In those days it seemed a lot of people had nothing better to do than come to attention when Janice and I appeared. It happened when the lights went up in a movie house on Friday night, in a supermarket line on Saturday morning, a real-estate office in the afternoon or a football crowd on Sunday.

White folks craned their necks to see us and bent sideways to hear us. From black men, there were knowing winks at me; from black women, icy stares at Janice.

Of course, as a black man in America, I had always known about racism. But my marriage to Janice made me more acutely aware of it -- to the point that we decided against having children, because we didn`t want them subjected to the taunts that the offspring of interracial parents often endure.

The hurt and humiliation we felt on any number of occasions was invariably followed by anger. We were determined not to accept abuse.

There was the treatment we received in several cities while eating out. Typically, we would be seated next to a serving area or the kitchen or in an unromantic corner -- the better not to be seen by other diners.

AS TIME WENT ON, WE FOUND that our antagonists could be black as well as white.

For example, there was a nearly violent encounter with a black man in a Japanese restaurant that features communal dining. This fellow took umbrage at our declining to sit with him, his wife, their young children and another woman. He shout- ed a few nasty names our way to let us know how he felt about our kind of twosome.

It wasn`t race but the children who had kept us from the table. We had each put in a particularly harrowing workday and did not want to deal with noisy kids.

And yet, while ``marrying white`` has resulted in discomfort at work and has carried a social penalty, it has also proved a personal blessing to both of us.

For example, through Janice I am better able to understand some of the trepidation of whites in reacting to affirmative-action programs they feel go too far in favor of blacks.

Through her eyes I can empathize with whites who, when encountering young black males in some situations, may fear that a mugging or worse is in the offing.

For her part, Janice has learned to understand my exasperation when, during my lunch hour, I am unable to find a downtown barber who knows how to cut my hair.

And through my career ups and downs, she has learned that for a black man the job options are limited and chances to succeed are hard to come by.

IN 1984, AFTER SIX YEARS OF fighting stares, subtle slights and flagrant insults, Janice and I stopped being so confrontational and began rolling with the punches.

In addition, we left behind a city that tolerated us grudgingly for a city where our abilities and perseverance mean more to other people than our interracial marriage. A city where the driver of an airport bus acted with sensitivity.

Yet two highly publicized events of the last several years involving suspected interracial relationships -- the 1989 murder of 16-year-old Yusuf Hawkins in the Brooklyn, N.Y., neighborhood of Bensonhurst and the vicious beating last summer of 17-year-old Jermaine Ewell on Long Island -- have caused me to look over my shoulder occasionally when out with my wife.

It`s the same way I felt in 1980 when I learned of the near-fatal shooting in Indiana of the National Urban League`s Vernon Jordan after he left the company of a white woman. I pray we aren`t returning to such mindless violence.

Which is why, when we heard the words ``Jungle Fever`` -- the title of Spike Lee`s controversial film -- yelled at us from a passing truck on a recent Saturday night, we cringed.

The jungle is for animals. Our humanity is what counts -- and our pride. The marriage we have embraced permits us to endure bigotry, insults and insensitivity and to press on.

-- RICHARD G. CARTER is a freelance writer and a former columnist for the New York Daily News.